


Two Sparks United

by SparkBeat



Series: What the Spark Wants [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fingering, Hand Job, M/M, Oral Sex, Sort of? - Freeform, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Yoga, alien equipment, body shame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of A Brief Spark. After years of grieving, Rung's given an opportunity to uphold his promise to Wing, in the form of a sloppy yoga pose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A two parter, the smut will all be in chapter two :) 
> 
> I just wanted to write about Rung and Drift having a nice time together, without any sad feels. Then smut happened.
> 
> Anyone who'd like to have image references for the poses I've tried and probably failed to describe, here are some links.
> 
> The first pose [is this one the I don't know the name for, but Briohny is just an amazing yogi :D](http://res.mindbodygreen.com/img/gal/ViparitaDandasana-Briohny.jpg)
> 
> The second [is Down Dog](http://www.fridaymorningbuzz.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/down-dog.jpg)
> 
> And the last [is Childs Pose](http://kimfischyoga.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/20100215-0010.jpg)

Rung hummed as he walked, nibbling on a rust stick. He fully intended to take advantage of his downtime on the off shift, and work on some case files on the observation deck. At this time of the cycle, everyone else was at Swerve’s, so the view of space through the dome would be his and his alone. He seemed to get more accomplished there than in his own office.

 

Datapad in one servo, he pulled another rust stick out of the packet with his other, and stepped through the door as it slid open. He was so engrossed in the file pulled up on the work screen it took him embarrassingly long to realize he wasn’t alone.

 

His olfactory sensor clued him in first, alerting him to a subtle scent he hadn’t smelled in thousands of years. It took longer than he’d ever admit to pull up the name out of old databanks, but he realized once he found it that the smell was incense. An organic blend that he hadn’t had on servo since before the war. Looking up, he finally noticed the lights were dimmed so far down as to be nearly non-existent. The occupant was relying mostly on starlight from the glass domes spaced out on the outer wall and the massive overhead.

 

Drift was on a familiar well-worn mat under one of the windows on the far wall, balancing on his forearms. The tires recessed into his armor looked a little flat, and Rung wondered if he hadn’t let some of the air out to help with his balance. He was facing the floor, a serene smile on his face, while his body arched up and over his head. One leg bent at the knee so his fingers could grasp at his pede tip, the other raised up nearly straight. Until the pede. 

Rung had only ever seen one other practitioner with the skill and confidence to take that pose, but not point his damn pede. He found himself at Drift’s side before he realized he’d started walking. Drift twisted his helm to smile up at Rung, wobbling just a tiny bit at the change in position.

 

“Rung. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone would be here right now. Normally everyone’s at the bar.”

 

“That’s the same reason I’m here.” Rung laughed, bending down to press pause on the soft music playing from a data pad resting just out of Drift’s reach. The larger mech moved to come down out of the advanced inversion pose, but Rung was quick to put his servos out to stop him.

 

“Wait! You know, if you point this pede,” He touched without thought, going through motions he hadn’t used in so long like he’d just done them yesterday. One servo rested on the small of his back, just below the lowest clamp for the Great Sword, supporting him incase he started to wobble again. The other slid up his leg until it reached his ankle joint, manipulating the pede to point straight up towards the ceiling, “The pose gets longer, and it’s more effective at stretching your tensors out than if you let it just flop.”

 

Drift followed his instructions, a look of intense concentration on his faceplates as he pointed the pede in question, leg trembling at the extra strain. Rung slid his servo back down to rest on the swordsmech’s thigh, unwilling to remove his support just yet.

 

The speedster took long moments to vent, abdominal armor cinching in tightly to his protoform as he focused on the improvement in the pose. When he pulled his bent leg up straight, Rung stepped back. He was content to appreciate the grace the other mech exhibited as he brought both pedes back down to the ground and rose up on his palms, bent at the hip joints to make a peak. 

 

Rung was patient as Drift lowered himself to sit with his legs bent, pedes under his aft, and leaned forward with his arms stretched out, groaning. 

 

When he finally pushed himself up to sit, he grinned at Rung, poking him in the shoulder.

 

“I didn’t know you knew yoga!” He laughed, stretching his arms up over his head and moaning at the loud pop in his back in a way that had Rung looking away to hide the flush rising to his cheeks.

 

“I taught it, before the war.” He didn’t see a reason to mention how it was taught in secret, to avoid scrutiny by the senate, and the Functionists that had been everywhere at the time. How only a few mechs had ever come to him with anything like regularity, wanting to further their knowledge of the art. Or how the incense Drift was burning now was so difficult to obtain back then, with the strict laws about importing organic items to Cybertron. But it had been worth it, Rung felt. It had always seemed to relax his students, and that was worth the hassle he went through to get it.

 

“Wing taught me.” Drift admitted after a minute of silence, looking at his servos, gripped together in his lap. Even after the years that had passed since Wing’s second passing, it still stung a bit to mention him. Or to hear his name.

 

They both missed him fiercely, time had done nothing to dull that, even when the pain had numbed.

 

“I figured as much,” Rung laughed, breaking the depressing moment, “Who do you think taught him?”

 

“What? But…I thought you’d never met him before?”

 

Neither had he, when they’d met in the med bay. Wing had never said anything, and Rung couldn’t figure out why, unless the Knight had thought he’d forgotten him. He hadn’t put two and two together until long after Wing had been gone again. Drift’s stories about rebuilds in New Crystal City, about how strange he’d thought Wing was when he’d met him, his name flat and devoid of historical tone notes. Then things that Wing had said, or done, when they’d been together started making more sense. Little inflections, or gestures, that had seemed so familiar without actually being familiar were suddenly so clearly the mech he’d taught all those years ago.

 

Back then, they’d been just friends, and Rung would have kept it that way, had things ever progressed further. He’d never want to damage their relationship as student and teacher. Maybe that had been why Wing had introduced himself as a new mech? He didn’t want to imagine that the jet had forgotten him like everyone else did.

 

Drift accepted his explanation without question. He offered an idea of his own, describing how the Knights went through an initiation process that Wing had simply called leaving the past behind.

 

“Some gave up physical things. Precious things that they would be spark broken to lose. Others made the grander gesture of _actually_ leaving their past behind, giving up their old names and becoming a new person. What Wing did was apparently just one step below actually wiping his hard drives and becoming a new bot. It’s like two different bots in the same frame, if that makes any sense? The old bot’s there, but it’s not driving anymore, it’s just a quiet sense in the back of the processor of _past._ ”

 

Rung had noticed the moment Drift shifted from talking about Wing’s experience to drawing on his own experiences sharing his processor with the memories of when he was Deadlock. He didn’t say anything, but he did put a servo on Drift’s shoulder, smiling at him.

 

“If you’d like, I can show you what I know?” He offered, settling down on the floor next to Drift and crossing his legs.

 

“Honestly?” Drift hesitated, and Rung didn’t miss the cautious glance Drift shot him out of the corner of his optic, “I’d rather have a partner, than a teacher.”

 

One of Drift’s servos had inched its way over to cover Rung’s, not gripping, just resting there, waiting for a response.

 

“Honestly?” Rung flipped his own servo over to grip Drift’s, squeezing tight, “I’d prefer that, myself.”

 

Drift’s smile was brilliant, outshining the stars overhead. Rung rose to his knees to press a kiss to the other mech’s cheek, but at the last moment Drift twisted his helm to the side, capturing Rung’s lips with his own.

 

When they pulled apart, Rung could feel that flush of heated energon in his cheeks again, spreading up over his nasal ridge and creeping down towards his neck. Drift was smirking, leaning in to press their foreheads together, fans whirring softly as a background noise.

 

“This okay?” He asked, brushing their noses together.

 

“More than okay.” Rung wouldn’t admit later that the noise he’d made then was a giggle, under threat of torture, but Drift just laughed and pressed in for another kiss.

 

Servos on his hips pulled at him until he swung one leg over Drift’s, and let himself be pulled into the speedster’s lap. His own fans kicked on, a higher pitched whine than Drift’s, but he didn’t care. He was busy. Drift’s lips parted on a moan, and he traced his glossa over the ridge of the larger mech’s dentae, teasing at its owners glossa until Drift pressed back, battling for dominance.

 

The servos still on his hips were kneading at his joints now, plucking wires and stroking heated plating. Rung ground their pelvic arrays together, whimpering at the skillful, teasing touches. It wasn’t until the panel over his interfacing equipment pinged a warning about opening that he remembered where they were. In a public place, where anyone could walk in at any time.

 

Even if he wanted to- scratch that, even _though_ he wanted to, he had to take into consideration that any of the mechs who trusted him as their therapist could walk in on him in such a compromising position, and damage that trust.

 

He pulled away from Drift, ignoring through sheer power of will alone the strand of oral lubricant that stretched between them, thinner and thinner until it snapped. His fans had switched over to a higher setting while he hadn’t been paying attention, a high pitched buzz he ignored in favor of the sound of Drift’s labored vents. Optics flared near white, mouth open to draw in cool air, Drift was a sight beneath him, and Rung wasn’t willing to let this come to an end for proprieties sake.

 

But relocation, on the other hand, wasn’t a bad idea.

 

“Your berth or mine?” He grinned.


	2. Round One

The door to Drift’s quarters hadn’t fully shut before Drift had lifted him up and pressed him against the wall, mouth insistent on his. Dentae nipped at his bottom lip, pinching the thin metal plates, a warm glossa following to smooth away the sting. Rung moaned, wrapping his arms around Drift’s neck and tilting his helm back against the wall when Drift shifted his attention to the cables of his throat, biting and kissing and sucking at the sensitive tubing.

 

He trailed his servos over Drift’s back plating, teasing in the sensitive seams of his shoulder pauldrons, and stroking at the clasps pinching around the wickedly sharp blade hanging down his back. Drift shifted, one servo cupping his aft, and pressed their bodies even tighter together, pinning him to the wall with his weight so he could reach behind and detach the Great Sword. Once it was carefully set aside, the servo returned to his hip seam, rolling a thick cable between deft digits. His hips bucked of their own accord, and Drift pulled away from his throat to look at him.

 

“You’re sure?” His voice was hoarse, deeper than normal and filled with a raspy sort of static feedback. It sounded a lot like the voice that was played during a lot of the old Autobot propaganda films at the height of the war. It sounded like Deadlock. Rung wasn’t sure what to make of the little zing of thrill that shot straight up his spinal strut at that, and leaned forward to bridge the gap between them and steal another kiss instead.

 

“Rung?” Drift pulled away, vents open wide and running high, “Much as I like that, I gotta have a yes or a no. Do you want this?” His servos were still on his plating, not so much as a single digit twitching against those over sensitized cables now.

 

He cleared his vocalizer twice before the static cleared away enough to be understood, but finally managed a simple yes. Like his tethers had been cut at the word, Drift was all over him again, servos finding plating and seams and cables he didn’t even realize could _be_ that sensitive, mouth latching onto the side of his neck and crimping a fuel line between his dentae _just right_ so he got just the slightest bit light headed, processor reeling.

 

The servo on his hip traced down his thigh, gripping just behind his knee joint and lifting it higher, guiding him into wrapping it around his side, pede hooking on the lip of a back plate. The new position left his interface panel exposed, hip joints spread wide to accommodate the bulk of Drift’s torso between his legs. Drift leaned in, putting pressure on his panel, grinding it against his chest armor and smearing the lubricants beading up around the edges that weren’t quite sealing with the rising heat.

 

Rung groaned, offlining his optics and arching back, hips stuttering as he chased after that solid touch. Drift obliged, pressing in harder still and biting at his throat cables again.

 

“Dri- _ah_ - _ift!_ ” Drift had pulled back, and Rung squealed mid-protest as large digits pressing at the hidden manual catches on his panel in the space created between them. The heated metal folded neatly out of the way, leaving him bared to the swordsmech’s hungry optics. He flushed, feeling a glob of lubricants push out of his clenching valve and slide down his aft.

 

Drift teased at his valve with his thumbs, rearranging Rung so his legs were resting over top his arms. His servos were pressed flat against the wall at his back, finger tips digging into the wall hard enough he wouldn’t be surprised if he left dents. The other mech leaned in to steal a hard kiss, tugging at his lip with his dentae and pressing his thumbs into his valve at the same time.

 

Rung pulled away with a gasp, helm cracking against the wall as those digits flexed and stroked at his valve walls, pressing into nodes crackling with rising charge. When Drift pulled his thumbs apart, stretching Rung’s valve wide between them, he couldn’t help the way his legs trembled, or how one kicked out reflexively, his heel clattering against the other’s back plates. The arms under his thighs shifted, and his back scraped against the wall as he was lifted higher. His servos grasped at Drift’s helm, wrapping around heated finials as he was pinned to the wall again, his valve achingly empty as those large servos pressed against his hips to keep him balanced.

 

Drift pressed an open mouthed kiss to his valve array then, glossa flicking against his swelling exterior node. Despite the grip holding him in place he tried to press down into the sensations, desperate little rolls of his hips that accomplished nothing but to emphasize how helpless he was in the larger mech’s grip. The speedster shot him a look, only his optics and helm crest visible between the juncture of his thighs. But it was pretty obvious the other mech was grinning as he mouthed at the pliable metalmesh of his valve lips, sucking one between his lips and rolling his dentae over it carefully.

 

Rung gasped, hunching forward, curling around Drift’s helm and mouthing at one delicate finial point. Drift’s ministrations stopped, momentarily distracted by the warm wet heat around the sensor laden metal. It was Rung’s turn to grin, feeling the tables had turned in his direction, but after a minute of Drift trembling and moaning underneath him, a servo pressed into his abdomen and pushed him upright, pulling him off his prize with a wet pop.

 

“Core strength, Rung. Show me how good you really are.” Drift removed both servos to his knees, holding his thighs and turning so his own back was supported by the wall with Rung’s legs trapped in the small spaces afforded by his shoulder pauldrons. Without any support at his back or on his hips, Rung was left to hold himself up as Drift returned his focus to the lubricant slicked valve in front of him.

 

It was a struggle, he wouldn’t lie, to try and find the calm to focus on keeping his abdominal plating tight and his tensors pulled taught. His frame was shaking, and this time it wasn’t just from the heat pooling in his tank.

 

A pressure at the rim of his valve, and then he arched his back, servos gripping at Drift’s helm crest as his glossa pressed in. His calipers couldn’t get a grip on the slippery appendage, cycling uselessly as his charge ramped higher. Rung pushed away, or tried to. Drift’s servos on his thighs were unmoving, and he peeked up at Rung with a questioning look in his optics.

 

“I’m – _oh slag, Dri~ift!_ I’m going to-“ Rung panted, squirming and redoubling his efforts to escape Drift’s tender mercies as overload loomed.

 

Drift pulled back slightly, and Rung moaned, offlining his optics at the sight of the glistening pink fluid smeared all over his face, clinging to his lips and chin and dripping off the tip of his nose.

 

“Rung, look at me.” Drift said, tone brooking no argument. Rung onlined his optics, and just about lost it as Drift’s glossa peeked out to swipe through the mess on his mouth. “Rung, I’m not done with you. I’m going to make you overload, here. And while you’re still out of it, I’m going to lay you out on the berth, and I’m going to find every single spot on your frame that makes your fans _scream_. And after you’ve overloaded from that? I’m going to pull you in my lap, and kiss you senseless. While I’ve got you all nice and distracted and pliant, I’m going to sit you down on my spike, and pull a few more overloads out of you. And that’s just the beginning.”

 

That rough voice, describing in detail everything its owner wanted to do to him? His spinal strut was nearly liquid, his abdominal plates fluttering and trembling in an effort to continue to support himself while charge played havoc on his systems. His mouth hung open in a combination of shock and desperation for cool air. Drift was watching him, one optic ridge raised.

 

“Rung? You okay?” Drift was thumbing at the seams in his thighs; firm, grounding touches meant to sooth, not tease. Rung nodded, and the fingers stopped. “Words, Rung.” Drift reminded him.

 

“Y-yes. _Oh Primus, yes._ ” Drift’s reaction was instantaneous, mouth fixing itself to his external node, suckling on the bundle of sensors and scraping his teeth over it. The charge that had only climbed higher as Drift spoke was now a visible thing, little arcs of electricity snapping between their plating.

 

A particularly sharp suction on his exterior node was enough to push him over the edge, clinging to Drift’s helm to keep himself from falling while his vocalizer spit static and half formed praise, and his optics went dark.

 

When he came to, Drift was arranging him on the berth to his liking.

 

“Ready for round two?”


	3. Round Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung's spike is based off [this design here](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/119625094368/adhesivesandscrap-heres-my-little-addition-to-the) where I was trying to come up with a spike a little less human like.

Drift wasn’t a mech to waste time, Rung thought. Those servos were making good on his earlier promises, inspecting every square inch of his plating and making obvious note of what spots the smaller bot reacted favorably to. He flared the interlinking armor plates where his waist dipped in, widening the access gaps for Drift’s fingers to play with the sensor clusters and neural-wire bundles he found.

 

He arched up off the berth, servos digging into berth padding above his helm. An insistent mouth found his, drinking down the moan bubbling up out of his vocalizer and teasing at his glossa with his own. Kneeling on the berth with Rung’s legs draped over his own, he leaned forward. Looming over him as he was, Rung was forced to tilt his helm back further or break the kiss. The latter would be unthinkable, not with his processor focused solely on the pleasure he was getting from the swordsmech and warnings of rising heat flashing on his HUD. So he arched his back further, helm tilting, and returned the kiss with a ferocity that startled the larger mech.

 

When he raised an arm to grab at Drift’s neck, one large servo gathered both of his together and pinned them to the berth. Rung made due, trailing one pede up the back of Drift’s leg, hooking it around the bot’s deceptively thin waist and pulling down. Drift followed the wordless demand (and Rung wasn’t fooling himself, he couldn’t have made Drift move if he hadn’t been willing. At least not the way he used).

 

With Drift’s frame draped over his, even held up as much as it was to not damage him, his fans kicked into high gear. Trying to disperse heat through only side vents was a challenge even for his light frame, and the heat warnings ramped up a notch. But what a feeling, to be completely pinned and covered by his partner! His vocalizer had taken it upon itself to encourage Drift, when his processor was far _far_ away from anything resembling coherency.

 

He wasn’t doing much more than scattering pleas and praise through an ever-constant litany of moans and cries as those deft digits continued to wreak havoc on delicate sensor clusters. He’d moved on to the wide gap of his hip joint, taking advantage of the way his thighs spread and opened the gap further to delve inside and tweak at a bundle of sensors that were rarely if ever paid attention to.

 

The servo pinning his wrists to the berth tightened fractionally before releasing him.

 

“Keep them there.” A warning rumbled low in his vocalizer that went straight to his interface array. He dug his fingers into the berth, nodding mutely. The now free servo immediately went to tracing around the rim of his spike cover. Rung bit his lip, looking away now and kneading at the cushioning.

 

“Rung?” Drift was nothing if not attentive, immediately picking up on the change in mood, the sudden discomfort Rung hadn’t successfully hid from his field. The servo in his hip joint disappeared, and he was shifted until he was laying flat on the berth again, Drift sitting at his side and looking down at him. “Words, Rung. Talk to me. What’d I do?”

 

“It’s silly,” Rung laughed, rising up on his elbows and shrugging, “I apologize for ruining the moment.”

 

Drift scowled, rolling his optics and leaning in to press a kiss to his crest. Rung could feel the frown against his plating.

 

“You didn’t ‘ruin’ anything, and if you’re uncomfortable, it’s not ‘silly’, Rung, everybody’s got their hang ups. I can’t avoid doing something that bothers you if you don’t let me know what it is.”

 

Rung wasn’t even sure _how_ to explain his problem to Drift. The other mech always seemed so comfortable in his frame, even if he wasn’t always confident in himself. How to explain that nobody had seen his spike in thousands of years? That the last partner he’d been with who had, had been turned off by it? He’d never gone through a rebuild, or bothered upgrading anything beyond what was necessary. As such, his interface array was the same he’d been built with, and things had changed drastically since he’d come online.

 

But Drift was still watching him, waiting patiently for him to find the right words, servo stroking his side not sexually, but comfortingly now.

 

In the end, he decided short and to the point would be the best.

 

“My spike is original to my period of construction. Many find it off putting, and as such, I’ve not felt comfortable showing it to a partner in a very long time.” He forced himself to meet Drift’s optics as he spoke, watching for any judgment, despite the rational part of his processor insisting that there would be none.

 

“Oh Rung.” Drift was quick to gather him up, pulling him into his lap with his back pressed to a broad chest plate. “Rung, you know my history. I’ve seen so much, I promise you, little would surprise me, and I would never judge you for being unmodded.”

 

“Things were very different back then.” Rung sighed, leaning back into the sturdy presence and soaking up warmth that he didn’t need but craved suddenly none the less.

 

“Rung, listen to me. I. Will. Not. Judge. You.” Each word was emphasized by a gentle kiss pressed to his helm or audial. “And I can guess at what you’ve got under your plating anyway. You’d be surprised how many unmodded mechs found it cheaper to come to Rodion than to spring for new equipment.” Arms wrapped around his waist, servos curling around his sides and grounding him with the firm touch.

 

Rung was silent for a moment, processing what Drift was implying. Their fans and the ticking of metal cooling were the only sounds in the room, but Drift made no move to rush him or prompt him to speak before he was ready.

 

Ultimately, he didn’t speak at all. He grabbed one of Drift’s servos, guiding it down to press flat against his array and taking a deep invent to steady his nerves. Drift had never lied to him in all the time that he’d known the other mech, save taking the blame for the mess with Overlord, and he saw no reason why the other would start now.

 

Before he could change his mind, he called up the long unused protocols to iris back his spike cover. Drift said nothing, mouthing instead at his neck while his servos picked up where they left off. Rung was grateful, unsure of how he’d react if Drift had asked him if he was okay. Servos parted his legs, guiding them to drape over the outer edges of Drift’s own thick thighs. One servo went back to his exposed hip joint, pinpointing the earlier ultra-sensitive clusters with startling accuracy. The other traced the rim of his spike cover, dipping just inside to rub at the inner walls of the housing but avoiding the recessed head of his spike just below the surface.

 

Despite his nerves, Rung could feel the heat rising in his frame again, and relaxed back against Drift’s chest as best as he could. Sitting this way, splayed open as he was, he could focus on Drift and only Drift. He’d never been held this way before, and that made it easier to not think about that mech’s horrified reaction. Instead, all he could think of was how wanton he must look, spread out over Drift’s lap with his thighs spread wide enough to gape his joints, valve and spike on display should anyone happen to walk in the door that they were facing.

 

His spike was slow to respond, having gone unused for so long. Drift was patient, the servo in his hip switching between the sensors there and his valve. When the hip sensors started to protest, and the pleasure tipped too close to the line between pleasure and pain, he would flinch, and the fingers would travel sideways to his valve, sliding through the glistening folds to press against his rim, tease at his valve lining, thumb at his anterior node. Then he’d take the lubricant smeared fingers back to his hip. He repeated this cycle multiple times, the only sign that it was affecting him the way his hips rutted up against Rung’s aft in a slow, sinuous motion that helped send Rung’s climbing temperature gauge higher.

 

When the head of his spike rose out of it’s housing, Drift swiped his thumb over the glowing cyan bulb in the center. His hips jerked, pressing up into the teasing touch. Drift went back to teasing the rim of the housing, the edge of his thumb tracing a sharp line of sensation along his shaft as he rubbed back and forth on the rim. A single finger was pressing into his valve now, slowly pushing aside rings of clenching calipers while his thumb pressed down on his anterior node. Rung tilted his head back, not even attempting to bite back the whimper in his vocalizer when Drift crooked the finger in his valve up to press against the thin wall separating his valve from his spike housing.

The pressure on his spike _inside_ its sheath was new, and different, but not unpleasant in the least. The digit slid up and down the front wall of his valve, keeping the pressure firm while Drift’s other servo slowly started paying more attention to the bit of his spike already exposed to the warm air their frames were generating. He rolled the head of his spike in the cup of his palm, pressing down _just right_ and trapping the bulb of sensors right up against his hand. Charge crackled between the two surfaces, and as his spike pressurized and rose out of it’s housing, Drift smoothly shifted so his thumb continued to depress the head while he wrapped his fingers around the growing shaft.

 

One finger became two in his valve now, focused more on stretching Rung’s valve as he teased nerve bundles and stretched the springy rings of calipers. Rungs own servos clawed at his thighs, unsure of where else to place them and not wanting to possibly distract Drift from what he was doing. He flared his plating, little puffs of steam released to dissipate in the (relatively) cooler air outside his frame.

 

The servo on his spike traced the lines of black metalmesh between the delicate tan plates that didn’t quite overlap one another. As Drift teased them, they slowly expanded, the mesh stretching taught between the plates as his spike pressurized fully.

 

“ _Drift, please!_ ” Rung whined, hips thrusting up into a loose grip then down onto the now three fingers stretching him open.

 

Drift obliged by tightening his grip, hand mimicking the press and release of a valve as he tested the resistance of the fully flared sections of plating. Fingers stroked along the underlying mesh, usually folded away and covered. Stars burst behind his optics, his fans running at full speed and doing nothing to lower his temperature.

 

It didn’t take very long, with how long he’d ignored his spike in favor of his valve. A few strokes had him begging the swordsmech for release, and Drift was happy to oblige. The fingers left his valve, and he only had half a klik to think about protesting before the lubricants from his valve were being smeared over the head of his spike. One hand closed over the head, pressing firmly on the now wet node, the other squeezed just right and Rung sobbed, frame rattling in the throes of an overload powerful enough to short his optics once more. Drift rolled his palm over the crackling node, discharging the last remnants of electricity into his palm and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

 

Rung batted his servos away weakly, and twisted till he was straddling the other mech again. Servos on his shoulders, he pulled himself up to kiss that smiling mouth. Drift’s servos, one a sticky mess and still heated from dissipating charge, pressed into his back, pulling him up flush to his chest.

 

“I believe you promised me at least one more overload.” Rung said between gasps for air when he pulled away. The smirk he got in response sent a shiver up his spinal strut, one that didn’t go unnoticed by the larger bot. The click of panels drawing aside preluded Drift’s spike rising between their bodies, large enough to make Rung wonder despite his experience if they would fit. The red and white striped enamel was crisp and glossy, and already beading with condensation from the heat, and leaking transfluid to smear against their bellies.

 

“At least one more.” Drift grinned wolfishly, bearing sharpened dentae.


End file.
